Charmed and Dangerous (3 page)

Gavin put down the scented page and contemplated the small city park outside the window of his rented rooms. The winds of early November were whirling the last dead leaves from hidden corners. The day was gray and chill, with a threat of winter. Sophie was only part of the larger question of what he was doing here, he thought. The congress wasn't his sort of posting. It must be clear to everyone in the British diplomatic service by now that he was not suited to these huge gatherings, with their endless posturing and empty chatter. For the last several years, he had received no such assignments. He had been sent to the volatile spots, to small secret meetings convened to further some plot or prevent some explosion. That was what he was good at.

Gavin's jaw hardened. He was no drawing-room diplomat. He worked alone. Trust a colleague with your plans, and they would most likely be spoiled. Trust was always a mistake. He handled matters himself, and presented His Majesty's government with the results when he had them. So what the devil was he doing here, assigned to Matthew Pryor's staff? Gavin frowned. Men like General Pryor were constitutionally incapable of understanding intrigue. They spent their time pushing counters around a map or drafting memoranda. Some damned bureaucrat in London had shoved them together. It was a recipe for disaster.

Thinking of Pryor brought to mind the man's idiotic scheme, and the focus of it—Laura Devane. He had been a bit cavalier with her, Gavin admitted to himself, remembering the outrage on her face after their dance. She wasn't used to that sort of game. It had been rather amusing, though.

Gavin smiled. She'd recovered admirably. He'd been prepared to endure shrieks and accusations, if necessary. But Laura had defied the whole place and walked back to her hosts like a queen. It was almost too bad that he had to get rid of her. But he had no time for squiring an aging virgin around Vienna, however spirited she might be. She must be forced to reject him. Then, Pryor would have to concede—and send her back to England.

It
was
too bad, Gavin thought again. Laura had grown up rather well. The skinniness of youth had turned into a lithe suppleness that had been quite pleasant under his hands during the waltz. She'd become one of those women whose curves are apparent only to the lover, an appealing contrast to those females whose attributes are visible to all. And her pale skin flushed as red as antique roses, he thought. With that raven hair and those eyes… He shrugged. She was striking. But he had more important things to think about.

* * *

Laura drummed her fingers on the surface of the writing desk in her room at the general's rented house. They were to go out walking in a few minutes, and there was a chance that she would see Gavin Graham again.

She had come to Vienna on impulse, to help the Pryors and, even more, to have a taste of adventure. She hadn't known what it would be like, whether she had a hope of actually helping. Certainly, she hadn't realized that the effort would involve public humiliation.

She clenched her fists. Gavin obviously intended to thwart the general's plan by intimidating her. Remembering the amusement in his eyes when he let her go after their dance, Laura gritted her teeth. He had already dismissed her as a nonentity, a weakling—in short, a woman who would run from the least hint of opposition or scandal. He had discounted her automatically, just like all the people whose lives she had passed through unnoticed in the last decade.

Laura sat back in her chair and relaxed. He had no idea of the adversity she'd faced, or the skills and fortitude she'd developed. He was acting on false assumptions.

She took a deep breath, feeling her anger fade. He was, in fact, sadly mistaken about her. When she accepted a task, she did it; when she made a promise, she fulfilled it. She didn't abandon obligations simply because they became burdensome. Ten years of being a governess had been rigorous training in that. And now he had made this task more than an obligation. Now it was personal—a contest between them that she had no intention of losing.

Laura's eyes narrowed. The Pryors hadn't seen what Gavin had done at the ball. Too many people stood between them and the dancers. The general had been quite pleased, in fact, believing his plan to be working after all. If they knew, they would call the whole scheme off, she thought. That was exactly what Gavin Graham was counting on. So she would make certain they didn't know. She would formulate her own plans. He wasn't playing fair, neither would she.

The maid knocked and told her the Pryors were ready. Laura rose and took up her gloves. The ideas were already forming. For years she had overcome difficult circumstances by playing a role. She could do so again. These circumstances were very different, of course, and she didn't comprehend them nearly as well. She needed information, background. She would have to ask some careful questions, be unobtrusive. Fortunately, she was an expert at that. Gavin Graham had no idea how expert.

* * *

They walked toward the center of the city and the Stephansplatz, where the ancient Cathedral of St. Stephan loomed above the pavement. The November air was chilly and kept them moving. But many others had also braved the cold to see and be seen. Laura had never traveled before, except through the pages of a book, and it was thrilling to be in a foreign city and be surrounded by its inhabitants. She also saw a great many conference attendees out strolling. When the general pointed out Prince Klemens von Metternich of Austria, whom she had read about in the newspapers countless times, Laura's satisfaction was complete. “The architect of the balance of power in Europe,” she murmured, drawing a startled look from her host.

She was enjoying herself thoroughly when she caught sight of Gavin Graham coming toward them along the promenade. He wore a caped greatcoat and high-crowned beaver hat and carried a curious cane lacquered in black and red. His pace seemed languid, yet he passed walkers who appeared to be moving more swiftly. Occasionally, he acknowledged an acquaintance with a nod. He acted as if he owned the city, Laura thought. And he surveyed the people he met with an absolute lack of feeling, as if they were curiosities that might, perhaps, have some use.

“Graham,” said the general when they neared him. “Walk with us.”

Impassively, Gavin obeyed this order. It was pleasant, Laura thought, to see him forced to do something he clearly didn't want to do.

“What an unusual cane,” the general's wife said. “What is painted on it?”

“A dragon.” Gavin held up the object so that they could see the scarlet creature depicted coiling around the cane along its whole length.

“Beautiful. Did you purchase it in the East?”

“It comes out of China,” he replied. “I received it in Siam. It was a…gift.”

Something about the way he said the word made Mrs. Pryor flush slightly.

“Siam,” said Laura. “What is it like there?” She had dreamed of seeing such places, experiencing such different cultures.

“Interesting. The king has more than a hundred wives.” Gavin smiled mockingly at her. “Surprisingly, he still finds time for politics and intrigue.”

“Mr. Graham,” protested Catherine Pryor.

“Ma'am?”

His bland gaze appeared to fluster the older woman. Putting other people off balance seemed to be one of his chief amusements, Laura thought.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Laura could tell that the general's wife was fuming.

“Oh, there is the baron,” said Catherine then, waving to a tall blond gentleman walking toward them.

The man approached and bowed formally. He had the erect bearing of a soldier, though he did not wear a uniform. His pale hair was matched by a small clipped mustache. His eyes were very light blue, and the pale line of a dueling scar marred his left cheek.

“Laura, this is Baron von Sternhagen,” said the general's wife. “Baron, a friend of ours from England, Miss Laura Devane.”

“Fräulein.” The baron bowed again and clicked his heels together.

Laura saw Gavin's eyes flicker with mocking amusement. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” she said in German.

“You speak my language?” answered the baron in the same tongue, clearly surprised.

“A little. And not too well, I fear.”

“No, no. Your accent is very good,” he said, switching back to English. “Where did you learn?”

Laura smiled. “In the schoolroom.” Her own and the Earl of Leith's, mainly the latter. Her pupils had not been particularly quick, and she had had to drill them repeatedly.

“Excellent. You have traveled to the German states?”

“Alas, no,” answered Laura.

“But you must. So few of your countrymen speak as well as you.”

“Perhaps someday.” Laura smiled at the baron, pleased with his compliments and rather glad that Gavin Graham was there to hear them.

General Pryor cleared his throat. “Never had much time to learn foreign lingo. Too busy.”

“Perhaps I will see you at the ball tomorrow night?” the baron said.

“I don't…”

“At our headquarters?” He cast the general's wife a glance and, when she shrugged, said, “I will make certain that your invitation reaches you. You must save me a dance.”

With another bow and a long look at Laura, he moved on.

“So very correct, the Prussians,” murmured Gavin.

Laura looked at him. It was interesting, she thought. He and the baron were both blond men, yet so different. The baron had looked bright as a new-minted gold piece; he practically glinted. Gavin, on the other hand, seemed burnished as antique gold, rich with experience and sophistication.

Their eyes met. Laura flushed slightly and turned away. She must give him no opening. He had shown that he would take ruthless advantage of it.

“Wouldn't you say so?” asked Gavin.

“What?”

“That the Prussians are oppressively correct.”

“The baron is the only Prussian I have ever met. I thought he was very pleasant.”

“Did you?” The tone of the two words implied that she was a fool.

Laura was about to retort when the general said, “There's that dashed painter. Don't look, Catherine. He's trying to catch your eye.”

Inevitably, his wife turned. Laura watched a slender man with glossy black hair and brilliant dark eyes smile and hurry toward them. “Madam,” he exclaimed, bowing extravagantly over Catherine's hand.

“Signor Oliveri,” she responded, taking her hand back.

“Is it not a splendid day? The blue of the sky, the freshness of the air, the movement.” He flung out his hands to indicate the people strolling around them.

Catherine seemed to be considering something as she glanced at Laura. Finally, she said, “This is Signor Oliveri. He has come up from Rome to paint the conference. He is working on a great canvas that shows all the important delegates. Our friend, Laura Devane, signor.”

“
Bèlla dònna
,” he declared, capturing her hand and bowing over it as well.

Laura greeted him in Italian. When she caught the look of surprise on Gavin's face, she felt a spurt of satisfaction.

Oliveri responded with a flood of words and gestures.

“I'm sorry. You'll have to go more slowly,” said Laura. “I haven't had much chance to practice my Italian with someone who truly speaks it.”

“No, no, you speak like an angel,” he answered. “Your voice is music. After the grunts and coughs that pass for speech here!” He threw up his hands. “Danish! May all the saints preserve us. It is as if the farmyard animals began to speak.”

Laura had to laugh.

“And I always think the Russians are clearing their throats,” he went on, encouraged. “I am only waiting for them to spit.”

“Signor,” she admonished with another laugh.

“We have to be moving on,” said General Pryor, his tone brooking no argument. He was frowning at his wife as if he intended to have a few words with her later.

Turning to look at Catherine, Laura caught Gavin's gaze. Was there actually a hint of laughter in those eyes? She would have wagered, then, that he spoke Italian.

“Yes, we should go,” said the general's wife.

Oliveri stepped back, spreading his arms. “I am enchanted to have met you, signorina,” he said. “Perhaps you will come and see my work one day.”

Catherine took Laura's arm and urged her forward. She was sorry that she had introduced Signor Oliveri, Laura realized. Probably he was not quite socially acceptable.

“No doubt you would find a great deal of pleasure in his ‘work,'” murmured Gavin in Italian, close to her ear.

“You think so?”

“No question,” he mocked.

“Is he not approved of?” she asked. “How interesting. The last gentleman I conversed with who was not approved of was…you.”

He looked distinctly startled.

“My parents thought you utterly unsuitable,” she elaborated. “They only allowed you to make an offer for me because of your father's influence.”

“Indeed?” he responded. “What a coincidence. My father's influence was the only reason I made it.”

Their eyes met. Laura didn't look away. He was sizing her up differently now—still cool, but not nearly so dismissive. She'd given him something to think about, Laura concluded with satisfaction. But it was nothing compared to what she had planned.

* * *

The moment that Laura had been waiting for finally came three days later. She had discovered what she needed to know, and the object of her curiosity was moving toward the doorway, obviously getting ready to leave the evening party they had both attended. Laura faded back a step from Catherine's side, and then moved unhurriedly in the same direction.

She found her quarry putting on a long blue cloak in the front hall. When the footman retreated, she stepped forward. “Hello.”

The other looked her up and down in frank evaluation.